Please
by Alys Blue
Summary: You love me. And I can't stand it.


I sit alert against a boulder, the fire raging in front of my eyes, a vicious dance and twirl of flames, while you sit cross-legged in the dirt beside me, playing with an intricately engraved knife. Most likely a remnant of your past in Orlais. But I don't ask. I stare into the dark night sky as if all of life's mysteries could be solved by the spattering of stars beginning to illuminate camp. I stare at them so long I nearly forget about your presence. What a blasphemous thought.

You clear your throat. I look at you, startled.

"You are pensive tonight, my love," you say.

Which is funny, because I've been spending the last hour we've been on watch together thinking of nothing at all. Or aspiring to. I give you a noncommittal shrug.

"Is it about the Archdemon?"

You've widely missed the mark, but I don't want this to turn into a game of you trying to wheedle my sorrows from me. So I don't respond, and you take this as affirmation of your suspicions.

"Mon cherie, you mustn't lose sleep over these nightmares. Let me help you."

Still I remain silent. You continue.

"Let me hold you, my Warden. It could be of comfort." When you still receive no response, you add softly, "You needn't be strong all the time. Not with me."

I think of Nelaros. I've been thinking of Nelaros lately, always with a nervous, guilty knot in the pit of my stomach, ever since the night you pressed your warm mouth to mine and breathed me into life again, wiped away my tears with the pad of your thumb, gently untwisted the bloody mess of a wedding gown from my tight, white-knuckled grasp and, after trying and failing to wash the stains out, folded it neatly into the bottom of my least-used bag. I hadn't protested. But I kept the plain wedding band I had taken off of Nelaros' corpse on my ring finger, and you made no comment, only entwined your fingers with mine and kissed my knuckles.

You wanted to sleep with me that night too. Not in any sexual sense. Maker knows I haven't brought myself to consummate our unspoken relationship. But you wrapped your arms around my waist and made as if to stay the night, and I quietly but forcefully shooed you away. That night, I imagined what Nelaros' rough hands would feel like on my waist. I wasn't entirely sure if I would like the feeling or not.

Were Nelaros still alive, would he be offering me the same succor? In our alienage home, with my swollen belly between us and his masculine hands cupping my face, would he ask if I wanted him to make my nightmares go away? Would I have let him?

I have never been held throughout the night, I tell you. Not by my mother, who died when I was young. Not by my father, who, for a long while, couldn't even look at me without grimacing of some long lost memory of his dearly departed wife. Not by giggling lovers and friends from my youth. Who would want to become friendly with the crazy elven girl who practices with weapons on a daily basis? And not even by Shianni, who, by the time she was old enough to realize that perhaps some comfort of the physical kind would ease my troubles, realized that I was so unused to human contact, initiating it might end in heartache for us both. Only you, my sweet bard, have dared to approach me with such a proposition. And even with its innocent intentions I'm not sure if I can succumb.

It seems to me that you take my intimations as as personal affront, though you are silent.

I can see that you are thinking extremely hard about something, because a tiny line has appeared between your eyebrows, that little adorable crease that I love. I find it strange that I adore you so very much, and shudder and shiver at your touch as if your fingertips send electric currents throughout my body, yet I cannot even let you spend the night in my bed.

You're uncharacteristically quiet until Sten and Alistair take over our shift. As I make to stand up, I feel your hand on my wrist, your finger on my pulse point, and I look up to see your lips moving faintly, as if you're counting the beats of my damaged heart. You follow me to my tent. This is not unusual. Frequently you have spent the night curled up on an extra bedroll at the foot of mine if I seem particularly troubled to you. When I do have nightmares, whether of the Archdemon or my wedding day, I sometimes awaken with you by my side with cold water and soft hands stroking my face. And if your beautiful, sad little smile isn't the first thing I see, if your deep blue eyes aren't what pulls me out of the Fade, I sit and quietly cry to myself, wishing that they were, wishing that I had the courage to let you in, and let you stay there.

I make to undress. You make to help. I push your hand away. You push back.

"Don't," I say. "Don't."

Your fingers, your exquisitely long and tapered fingers, find all the right latches and knots on my armor quickly, as if this is something you have done a million times, as if you have somehow memorized every facet of my body and it's adornments even though I have never let you stand this close to me.

Tears threaten to spill out from my eyes. "Stop, please." My voice cracks, and my words make you sound terrible, like a monster, like you're taking away my innocence. Though it is obvious that such an activity is the farthest thing from your mind. Your hands are gentle but insistent. Your eyes glow. You press your lips chastely to my forehead, and the gesture is filled with so much simple affection that my throat closes up completely, and I couldn't speak anymore even if I wanted to. You love me. And I can't stand it.

In my lapse of attention you have stripped me to nothing but my underclothes and a tunic and are in the process of undressing yourself for the night. You are still standing so close to me that I can feel your body heat radiating against my skin. A thrill of fear courses through me. I shove you roughly away from me.

You bounce right up, barely startled by my actions, and force yourself right up against me, pushing me stumbling backwards until I am hovering over my bedroll. I stubbornly stand up straighter, lifting my chin, daring you to do what we both know you're going to do regardless of my obstinate behavior.

Your hand reaches up to cup my chin. I shiver and shift away. Your lips press to my jaw, and your hands wrap themselves around my upper arms. I tense, pull my fist back and hit you square in the chest, but you don't even flinch. I rain blows against your lithe body, and your only reaction is to slip your hands down to my wrists and hold them still. You are surprisingly strong. I stop my violence with an exasperated cry of despair and bury my face into your neck, breathing heavily, close to tears.

You hold me close. Stroke my hair. Wrap an arm around my waist and pull me down on to the bedroll. We are lying together, our legs are somehow entwined, your warm, sweet breath is on my face. I pull back a little, to see the adoring expression on your face, though my vision has been compromised by the tears streaming down my face. You stroke the bridge of my nose once. You kiss both of my eyelids shut. And in the morning, when I see the bruises scattered across your collarbone, I feel sick, I feel terrible, I feel like dying, if only to save you from me. But your grip around my waist tightens as you catch the look on my face, and I know you would never let me leave you that easily.

And I know that for the rest of my life, my sole purpose will be to make you feel every day how you made me feel that one, fateful night.

**AN: I know I've been writing nothing but one-shots lately, and I suppose it's irritating. But I'm trying to get back in the habit of writing regularly before I try to tackle any of the longer stories I've been planning, some of them for DA:O and DA2. Also, sorry for any mistake but I'm writing this on my iPad and I don't have a beta. If anyone's interested, at least in beta-ing my Dragon Age fics, I'd appreciate it greatly. Any who, as always, review please, because reviews make me a happy writer that writes and updates more often. :)**


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